


If wishes were wolves

by MostFacinorous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mindfuck, Possession, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But that was silly. Wishes didn’t come true. Not really. Not like that. </p><p>Did they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If wishes were wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Decadent_Hedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decadent_Hedonism/gifts).



The funny thing about Stiles was how he’d said he’d loved her since third grade.  
They had been eight years old. 

And her-- her change of luck, her big turning point, it hadn’t happened until she was 14. 

She’d written it off to a really awesome puberty, but... these days she just wasn’t so sure.

She remembered one night, one particularly awful night, curling up on the foot of her bed, so that she could stare out the window from behind the matted, ratted curtains of her frizzy red hair, wishing that just once, she could go to school, and not be laughed at, and picked on, and made fun of. That she could be liked and popular and looked up to.  
There had been a falling star.  
She’d gotten her period.  
Things had started changing. 

But that was silly. Wishes didn’t come true. Not really. Not like that. 

Did they?

\---

She tastes off.  
Wrong.  
It takes days for him to pinpoint it.  
She tastes cold.  
Not in the way dead flesh tastes cold-- she is very much alive-- but... empty. She’s missing some small piece of humanity, something alive.  
He likes it. 

The wolf in him is curious.  
The man in him sees only an opening to be filled. 

\---

The bite takes forever to heal, and she gets the shakes, some nights. Fevers, others. The dreams, though, are a constant. 

Hands, lips, teeth, fire, memories that aren’t hers. Glowing red eyes. And him.  
He’s charming, but always so angry, anger brimming just below the surface, rolling behind his words.  
Night after night finds her fingers against the bite, digging for what’s inside of her. She wonders if one of the teeth broke off in there, but the doctors haven’t found anything. She can feel it, though, burning inside of her skin, like it’s cutting her still, and she dreams that it is forever locked in a loop of healing and inflicting pain. She wakes and half sees, half senses him there, and she curls up on the foot of her bed, and looks out the window, and wishes that he would just leave her alone.  
But wishes don’t come true.  
Not like that. 

\---

He tugs, pushes at her, brings her close to him, makes her feel so far away from everyone else. From everything else. Sometimes, he wonders if she can even tell what’s real anymore. Sometimes, he knows for a fact that she can’t. 

It’s heady, and empowering, and he’s been an alpha-- he knows power. But this is more, somehow. Stronger.  
Deeper. 

And he curls himself tighter, worming further into the recesses of her mind. Finding all the things that make her scream, that make her sob, that make her laugh.  
He’ll own all of it, and soon.  
The full moon is coming. 

Sweet Lydia’s full moon.  
His own.  
\---

She’s sleep walking. She must be. It’s hazy, floating. Mirrors. Flowers. Blood. So much blood. Screaming. The ground shakes, and parts, and there he is, just like in the dreams. And she’s almost used to them now. It almost doesn’t scare her.  
She calmly gets up, goes home. 

He’ll come for her later. 

But he doesn’t.  
No dreams.  
No voice in her head. 

Just her. Alone. Hollow. Vacant.  
Appallingly empty. 

And then, she doesn’t sleep. 

She lays across her bed, staring out the window, wishing that he would come back to her.  
Please.  
But wishes don’t come true. Not like that.  
Not really. 

Do they?  
\---

She’s so soft, so vulnerable now. He can smell how fragile she is from here, the integrity of her brilliant mind ever so slightly compromised, even now, without him in it. 

She is staring at him through her window with eyes that do not see, and she is beautiful.  
Strong.  
Untouchable. 

What a wolf she would be, if he could only manage to turn her... but something is missing. That empty hole where parts of her humanity are gone, that’s the place he needs to sink his claws, his teeth, his everything into.  
He’s going to have to build her up, to make her, before he can break her.  
It’s more effort than he’d intended to exert on her. 

But she’s responded. To that boy. Stiles. The other one with so much promise...  
Just a sliver. The smallest of difference that, had he not been in her, he would not have noticed-- but in her time with Stiles, that small sliver of humanity had filled in, healed, and come back. 

And all he had done was recognized her for the power she was. Respected her mind. Coveted her body.  
He could do all of that. He could do it far better than some child, even one so impressive as Mr. Stilinski. 

He slid the glass away and climbed into her room. 

Her eyes did not focus on him until he slid his palm across her cheek, his thumb rubbing across her lower lip, glossed and silken to the touch. Then she sat up, leaning towards him almost unconsciously.  
Her throat stretched as she tilted her face up to meet him, and her scent fanned out to greet him with her pulse.  
Her lips parted and her breath combined with the smell of her skin, her hair, her pheromones. He licked his lips. 

“You came back.”  
Soft, with that pouting little mouth jutting upwards, the shine catching the light of the moon, and reflecting the momentary predatory glint of red from his eyes. 

“Of course I came back for you, precious.” It came out a purr, the verbal echo of the petting he’d begun on her scalp, long clawed hands parting soft locks. 

“You aren’t burned. Or dead.” Her voice was losing the dream like quality, getting sharper. Stronger. 

“Your observational skills are astounding.” He murmured. 

“Are you real now?” She’d returned to vulnerability. 

He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her up to kneel on her bed, drawing her near even with his height, standing. 

“You tell me.” He challenged, and kissed her. 

She did not hesitate to respond, thin arms wrapping around his neck, leaning weight on his shoulders, long, delicate fingers burying themselves in his hair. 

When she broke the kiss, she did not pull away, choosing instead to search his eyes, as though they would tell her some truth. 

“Why. What are you, and why have you chosen me?” 

“I am Peter Hale. And I chose you because you’re mine.” 

She sighed, as though relieved, and leaned in again, offering her mouth. He caught her by her hair and tilted her head back and to the side, baring her neck to him. 

“I could kill you now.” He whispered, licking at the column that her jugular created.  
She did not stiffen beneath him. She moaned.  
“I could hold you down and claim you until your cracked mind shatters and you don’t even remember your name.” He continued, and she arched up, attempting to get him to return his attentions to applying his mouth to her skin.  
“But I won’t do that. Not now. Not to you, Lydia Martin. I want you to be as strong as we know you can be, as bold and courageous and smart... and as cold and cunning and ruthless. You want that too, don’t you?” 

She opened her eyes to slits, fighting as though the lids had become too heavy to manage under the weight of her arousal. 

“Please--” 

He growled softly, well aware that she shared the house with her parents.  
“Please what, Lydia? What do you want?”  
He wished he could offer her the bite now, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t turn her. He snarled under his breath, angry that he could not have her as pack, not really, not fully. Not yet. 

“Peter--” She choked it out, and he responded by wrapping a hand around her throat. 

“You want to be claimed, don’t you? Want to be mine. Want people not to forget who it is who pens those theorems, who creates equations, and understands ancient Latin. You want the respect and the control and the power, the popularity... you want to not have to hide anymore. You want to stand proudly at my side and know that people envy us, fear us, want to be us, but dare not try. Don’t you?” 

“N-no.” Her voice shook. “I mean yes. All of that. But I want you-- I want you inside of me. The rest can come after. Peter, please. I miss you being there.” 

Of course. 

A void, needing to be filled. And her young mind could only translate that as a need for sexual congress.  
Well, who was he to argue? 

 

"Your skin is so perfect." He breathed, stroking her cheek again, brushing her hair out of the way as he trailed his fingers over her neck, to her shoulder, and across her collarbone.

She shivered. 

"Are you a ghost?" 

He snorted out a small chuckle. 

"No, no, I'm just as alive as you. More, even. Let me see." He dropped his hands to the bottom of her nightshirt, and pulled it up, his palms and fingertips running up her stomach towards her rib cage, soaking in the softness along the way, and pausing at her side, where he had marred her perfection. 

"I'd expected this to heal, you know. I didn't mean to leave you like this."

"Everyone expects that." Her mind went to Stiles, leaving her sobbing in her car, Jackson who thought she would be over him the moment he walked away, as though she had never cared in the least. 

She turned her face from him, and he let his fingers rest on his bite, while his free hand settled on her face, cupping her ear, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone, wiping away the tears she hadn't been aware she was shedding. 

"Let me take away the pain, pet."  
He leaned in, and pushed his fingers into the holes in her flesh that wouldn't heal. Inside of her, as she had asked. Not, perhaps, as she intended, but inside of her all the same. And as she gasped at the pain of her skin stretching, ripping, he pushed himself in closer to her, his chest against her, pulling her mouth to his, breathing in her pain, her fear… tasting how aroused she was in the midst of it all. Black traveled through his wrist, through his cheeks and down his neck.

Her pain, draining into him.

Heady and powerful. 

He broke their kiss and slipped her shirt off with the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

"Let me make you strong again, Lydia. My strong, beautiful girl. You used to command the world… let me build you back into the Queen you are, the Queen you should be."  
He pressed her back, pushed her against the covers on her bed, and she fell willingly. 

"Yes." It wasn't dreamy or unaware, they way she sometimes seemed. She felt stronger now already, her eyes sliding more easily into focus than they had done in weeks.  
"Yes. Do it. You want me to be a Queen? Then serve me." She tilted her chin upwards, a move that had always in the past elevated her above her peers, but here, on her back, served only to bare her throat to him. Not quite submission, not quite the challenge she had intended, but somewhere between. 

It sent him crawling up the length of her, pausing to lip softly at the slowly bleeding marks on her side, before he kissed her again, her blood sliding between their lips, and, when she ran her tongue along them, between their mouths. 

He didn't correct her about who would be serving whom. No words were necessary and he intended to show her. He found that his students learned better from a hands on approach.

Long, elegant fingers danced down the buttons on his chest. 

His, too, danced across her chest, pinching nipples just hard enough to bring pain, before he very quickly sapped it out of her.  
He let his claws grow, and scratched all down her front, tiny pinpricks of broken skin appearing on her upper thighs, as he pressed down there and used the leverage to rearrange himself, pressing his knee up and into her, making her moan and buck her hips, grinding her pelvis against him.  
He smirked. 

Her smell was getting stronger, fuller, and he could feel the warmth and wetness of her on his thigh.  
He reached down to brush his thumb over her clit, making her freeze in place. 

"Again." It was a command. He licked his lips and did, and she bucked up into the touch. 

"You poor thing… your little boyfriend was so young—he had no idea how good it could be for you, did he?" He was growling, unexpectedly angry at Jackson's oversight. The wolf in him didn't honestly care for all of this foreplay. However, he knew better than to try and move past it just yet—not with her so mentally shattered as she was. She needed the comfort that came from this. Needed to think he wasn't toeing a precarious line between wanting to possess her and needing to destroy her. 

"Jackson was plenty good. It's not his fault you're-" she gasped as he stopped stroking and just pushed down, applying firm pressure with his thumb. "-better." 

"More experienced." He corrected. He slid his thumb downwards through the wetness, dipping shallowly into her.  
"That." She agreed shortly, though whether to his words or his actions, neither of them seemed altogether sure. 

He pulled back, lowering himself down to nose at her slit and ignoring her whine at the loss of his hand.  
He tongued his way into her, and she moaned, her fingers coming up to tangle in his hair. It made him growl, and she just tugged in response, making the sound deepen. Her hips bucked upwards into his mouth, and he could feel his eyes change in his face, could feel the beast in him coming out. 

Delicious. 

She tugged him up, pulling him from his neck, pulling him in to taste herself. 

"Either fuck me, or let me fuck you." She whispered against his lips, and if she was anyone else, it would have been a demand, an order—from her, it nearly sounded sweet. Sweet and oh, so dirty. 

He grinned and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, his teeth coming out as a barrier between them, a quick nip to serve as a warning to her, not to forget who and what she was dealing with. 

She responded with a fresh wave of arousal that he could taste, with as thick it was in the air.  
And then he was rolling them, settling her over him, tugging her forward up his body by her hips.  
She rocked against him, not bothering to remove his pants, not yet, and if he came in his boxers like a teenager, he was not going to be pleased in the least. But he made no move to stop her, letting her take what she wanted.

She leaned forward, dragging herself against his bulge shamelessly, too absorbed in what she was doing, her palms coming up to balance her and catching on his chest. 

"If you want me inside of you tonight, Princess, I suggest you cut to the chase. Sooner rather than later." 

She tilted her head, looking down her nose at him.  
"So much for experience. And why was I demoted? Last I checked, I was the Queen here. But," she took her weight on her knees, undoing the tiny zipper on his dress pants. "Yes please." 

The plastic teeth, nearly silent to her human hearing, registered as obscenely loud to his.  
"Condoms? Lube?" 

"If my bite took no hold, neither will my seed, and I carry no illnesses. We breed with she-wolves in heat. I do not know of any wolf who has managed to impregnate a human. You have nothing to fear. Besides—wouldn't you rather feel me?" He spoke with his alpha voice, low, seductive, appealing, brooking no argument, though he knew she was a smart girl. 

She stared at him, her eyes reclaiming that dreamy quality, and he cursed himself, realizing he had caused her to retreat back into her own mind. 

She snapped out of it, though, with just the smallest of shifts beneath her, reminding her of her own desire.  
She resumed where she had left off, and he lay back to watch her. 

He would not call her handling of him 'rough', but it was bordering on desperate, and lacked the care that he'd shown her.  
He rather liked it, this forward, controlling side of her. It would be fascinating to see it pitted against his future Betas.  
For now, though, he held his wolf at bay, and allowed her to mount him, to slide down his length, all sweet friction and tight warmth. She paused, squirming a bit before she was fully seated on him, using her hands and knees to hold herself up, and he snarled, using her hips and thrusting to drive home within her. 

She let out a cry and tossed her head back, and he grinned, but slapped a hand over her mouth anyway.  
"I can't imaging your parents would be too pleased, walking in to find you riding someone twice your age, and decidedly more beast than man." 

She bucked, not looking at him, as though searching for something. 

"I can't—I can't hear you in me. Why can't I hear you?" She seemed plaintive. He reached up, stroking her cheek that he liked so much. 

"Maybe I just need to be deeper inside." He offered, his smile toothy and hungry. He bucked upwards, and she tilted her pelvis to meet him.

"I don't—miss the nightmares." She said, rolling her hips into his. "But I miss… my head has never felt so empty." She shook he hair back, trying to make out his face. "I sound crazy."

"Maybe we both are. I understand you perfectly. Cunning, clever Lydia… Your mind will never be empty. I just stretched it out, the same way I'm stretching your delicious body right now." He thrust sharply to illustrate his point, and she caught an aborted moan in her throat. "And when we're done, your cunt will ache for me, the same way that your mind does. But don't worry." He moved his voice into a whisper, his eyes flashing red in the process. "I'm not going anywhere." 

She shivered and stilled, and he was ready for it, pitching them to their sides and rolling her onto her back. He realigned himself quickly and pressed in, his pelvis dragging against her inner thighs. 

He didn't waste time on it, pressing his fingers into her mouth, letting her suckle at them, the pull of her lips telling him that perhaps he'd made a mistake in being too giving with their foreplay—no matter. There would be other opportunities. 

He used his wetted fingers to slick where their skin rubbed together, buying them temporary relief. 

She must wax to attain such smoothness. And he appreciated the smoothness, the lack of marring scars, of pits full of sharp hairs—he felt those enough when he turned. So perfect. He deserved perfection. Craved it. 

She pulled him to her, pulled him down on her, needing the weight, the warmth—needing access to his back, so that she could sink her nails into his skin. 

He bucked, liking the sting of it, and she cried out. He caught her cry with his lips and pressed his hips into her, snapping harder, with more force, until they both knew she would be sore, maybe—probably—even bruised, tomorrow. Neither seemed to mind. In fact, they both delighted in it. 

So when their movements turned more violent, more frenzied, neither was surprised. 

"In- in me." She started repeating it like a mantra, a wish.

And some wishes, of course, do come true.


End file.
